Bold

I was 19 years old when someone asked me how bold I could be.
He himself was old, but not old enough in his mind to understand that bold was a subjective term.
In his vocabulary it meant one thing, and in mine that one thing spelt weak.

I think I am the most fluid person I know—I say that like it’s a terrible trait. I know how to adapt myself to a person’s language, their vocabulary, the meanings they ascribe to words. In the end, I am playing too many parts, and the one I want to play is felt by me alone because it is still wrapped in silence.

The term goes “to come up for air”, but for me it’s always been a plunge within. So I keep coming back to alone. It is a state without language and only meaning—so much burden lifted off already.

There is one common meaning ascribed to boldness though—to expose oneself.
There are many ways to do that: sometimes it is simply in words.
But there is a kind of nakedness I wish I hadn’t seen. It is when bold became a fad rather than a dare to dream—and then make that dream come true.

For me, there is much more boldness in concealing. In waiting.
In saying, I hold this to be of highest value, so I’m not giving it to you.
There are stories so sacred, I will not tell them to you.
I will hold on to these secrets for someone not you.